


Do You Want to Build a Snowman?

by applesofthemoon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Erogenous dick scar smut, Fucking in front of ravens, M/M, Near death by snowman, That thing where the dick goes between the thighs but not in the butt, mild drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-25 23:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13223274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applesofthemoon/pseuds/applesofthemoon
Summary: The Bastard's Boys make a snowman. Ramsay makes amends. Theon makes a discovery that might have been best left undiscovered.





	Do You Want to Build a Snowman?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AeonDelirium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeonDelirium/gifts).



> Man I got AeonDecember in the Thramsay Secret Santa and I wanted to write something awesome bc he's an awesome guy but instead I shat out this self-indulgent load of...I mean, I did my best and hopefully it's okay. :') Good old-fashioned mainverse Thramsay with snow and intoxication as prompted. Also, once I got the idea, I knew I couldn't possibly use any other title. I don't expect to be forgiven.

Theon had been ready to die for a long time, but like this? Gods help him, he was still too proud to die like _this._

At this point, though, he didn’t think he’d have a choice in the matter. All that remained was to see what would do him in first: the cold, or the snow stopping up his mouth and nose. Some of it had turned to water and run down his throat, and that had been almost refreshing, but he had lost too much body heat to melt it all. At least the cold had numbed his teeth and gums. It had numbed his fingers and toes, too, and was doing the same to his arms and legs. At least he wouldn’t die in pain. No, he’d just die as the butt of a stupid jape, entombed in a bloody snowman.

He hadn’t even _done_ anything. He’d been minding his own business, pacing the courtyard, when Sour Alyn and Yellow Dick had grabbed him and tied him to a tree with his own belt. They were drunk, and stronger than you’d think to look at them. They buried him in snow, packed it good and solid and adorned it as per tradition, with sticks for arms and buttons for eyes. When they beheld their creation, they laughed and laughed.

_Why, Reek,_ Yellow Dick said, _I can barely smell you under there._

He heard footsteps in the snow, and thought of moving or calling out to make his presence known. But the thought was as far as he got. He could no more signal for help than dance a Dornish jig, and besides, who would care to help him?

The footsteps crunched to a stop, and there was a moment’s pause. Then the snow that covered Theon’s face loosened and crumbled. He blinked and saw Ramsay, regarding him with a bemused smile. “There you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

He cleared away the rest of the snow and released Theon from his bonds, sawing through the belt with his dagger. Theon fell at once to his knees, and from there to his side. His vision went white, then black. “Gods be good, Reek, you look like death warmed over,” he heard Ramsay say, from someplace far away. “Or should I say chilled?”

––

When Theon came to, he was warm. He didn’t know where he was or how he had come to be there, but he was warm, and nothing else mattered. 

He realized that he was in a bed, with a mountain of heavy furs on top of him. It had been a very long time since Theon had slept in a bed. At the Dreadfort the kennels had been his quarters, and here at Winterfell beds were in such short supply that men of much higher rank than he had to go without. Looking around, he saw a room washed in white light from an arched window. Against one wall was a stack of cages, inside which ravens preened and muttered. On another wall was a hearth, and before it stood a young man in a grey robe. He took a pot from the fire and emptied its contents into a cup.

So this was the maesters’ chamber. Theon had known Lord Bolton must have set them up somewhere, since Maester Luwin’s tower was quite uninhabitable, but he hadn’t known where until now. He thought it had once been one of the girls’ bedchambers––Sansa’s or Arya’s. This must have been one of their beds.

From without came a voice, instantly familiar. “Why did you have to drag the maesters into this?” Ramsay demanded. “Reek is mine. I can take care of him.”

“You have a peculiar way of going about it.” That was Lord Bolton’s voice, barely loud enough to be heard through the door.

“It wasn’t me who trussed him up and left him to freeze.”

“Then you should have stopped it.”

“Alyn and Dick were just having a bit of fun with him. They know not to do it again.”

“Once was very nearly enough.”

Outside, snow was falling gently. The young maester brought the cup to Theon. “Drink it slowly,” he said.

Theon sat up, and noticed as he did that he had been peeled out of his wet rags and put in a clean bedrobe. He took the cup, avoiding the maester’s eyes. He hoped this man hadn’t been the one to undress him, or that, if he had been, his memory was extraordinarily poor. 

Inside the cup was an herbal tea, bitter but heavenly hot. Theon cradled the cup in both hands and drank in small sips. “Your wedding is in two days, Ramsay,” he heard Lord Bolton say. “I want to believe that you can control yourself— _and your men_ —for two days.”

“I can,” Ramsay said, his voice tight with impatience. “I will.”

“You’d better.” The door made a sound as though someone had put their hand against it. “What are you doing?” Bolton said.

“I just want to check on him.”

“If you damage him further—“

“I won’t. I _promise._ ”

Theon gulped down the rest of his tea, nearly choking from the heat of it, and ducked beneath the furs. Through them, he heard the door open. “Leave us,” Ramsay said to the young maester.

There was the shuffling of feet, and a soft _thud_ as the door shut. Then, quiet. Theon tried not to breathe.

“Come out of there. I know you’re not asleep.” Ramsay’s voice rose a note, affecting sweetness. “I have something for you.”

Whatever it was, Theon didn’t want it, but he could hardly say so aloud. Reluctantly, he folded back the furs and sat up. Ramsay stood beside the bed in a fur-trimmed cloak and woolen doublet, a bottle of wine in his fist. “This will warm you up sure as any maester’s medicine,” he said. It was red wine, of a shade so deep that Theon’s mouth watered at the sight of it. He swallowed and looked away, watching from the corner of his eye as Ramsay drove his dagger into the bottle’s cork. It came free with a twist and a _pop,_ and a rich, earthy smell suffused the air.

Ramsay extended the bottle to Theon, holding it by the neck. Theon hesitated to accept it. He supposed Ramsay couldn’t have _done_ anything to it, not when it had been sealed until just now, but… “Go on,” Ramsay prompted.

Theon took the bottle and lifted it to his lips. “Yes, you enjoy that,” Ramsay said. “Don’t worry about me. I only went out of my way to bring it to you.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Theon offered Ramsay the wine. “Would you like a drink?”

Ramsay grabbed the bottle, drank noisily, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. When he handed the bottle back to Theon, the wine inside sloshed to and fro. Theon looked at it, then up at Ramsay. “M’lord,” he tried, “may I…?”

Ramsay rolled his eyes. “ _Yes,_ now it’s your turn.”

Ramsay sat down on a stool next to the bed and they passed the bottle back and forth, drinking without speaking. The bottle was heavy, and Theon had to be careful not to drop it, but gods, the wine was good. It was strong, but not sour, and it warmed Theon just as Ramsay had promised it would. In no time at all, he had pushed off all but one of his furs. 

The room’s single window was beside the bed, and from it Theon could see a courtyard. Whether it was the one where he had almost met his end, he wasn’t sure; they all looked the same under a blanket of snow. He saw a handful of squires packing and throwing snowballs, their shouts muted by thick panes of leaded glass. One boy had built a small parapet of snow and was doing quite nicely behind it, until two others teamed up to charge it. They knocked the first boy on his back and stuffed snow down his shirt and breeches, laughing.

“That’s the last of it,” Ramsay announced, sucking a drop of wine from the rim of the empty bottle. They had finished it in less than three-quarters of an hour, or so Theon guessed with no means of keeping time. “No matter. There are other ways to keep warm.”

He unfastened his cloak and took off his boots, setting them aside with the wine bottle. Theon knew what he meant to do then, and the wine in his belly threatened to leave the way it had come. “I’m warm enough, m’lord,” he said, hating the feeble, bleating noise that was his voice. “Really.”

Ramsay studied him. “Are you?” he said icily. “Then perhaps I should send you back outside.” 

By then the whole room stunk of wine, but somehow it was worse on Ramsay’s breath, a hot, wet wave that hit Theon full in the face as Ramsay joined him in the bed. He took Theon by a handful of brittle hair and pulled him down beneath his last remaining pelt, a bearskin big enough to cover them both. He found himself pressed against Ramsay’s chest, inhaling the smells of wine and wool and sweat. His head spun; his mouth was dry.

At first he lay still, much as he wanted to squirm away. Then he felt Ramsay’s hand slip into his bedrobe and between his legs. “Don’t,” he blurted, catching Ramsay by the wrist.

“Excuse me?” 

Ramsay should have been furious, but if anything, he seemed amused. Theon couldn’t stop him from doing as he pleased, and he knew it. His hand stayed where it was, flesh against ridged, puckered flesh. “I just...I wish you wouldn’t,” Theon said lamely.

“And I wish you weren’t such a whiny little cunt,” Ramsay said, “but we don’t always get what we wish for, do we?”

With his free hand, he cupped Theon’s chin and tilted his face upward. Theon could feel his gaze, slithering over his skin like something alive, but he didn’t meet it. He didn’t care if Ramsay tore his eyes out then and there. He couldn’t look at him, not while he was doing _that._

After what felt like several lifetimes, Ramsay shoved Theon over onto his side, facing the window. Theon heard him unlace his breeches and spit into his hand. “Don’t worry,” he said against Theon’s neck, “I’ll be gentle. Father’s orders.”

Theon learned what that meant when he felt the hard heat of Ramsay’s cock push not inside him, but between his thighs. They were thin enough that when Ramsay’s hips were flush against Theon’s arse, his cock-head poked out the other side, pink and shining. Then it disappeared, squelching lewdly against Theon’s skin. Ramsay grunted into Theon’s ear, an animal sound.

Theon had been promised gentleness, and this was gentler, certainly, than most of what Ramsay liked to do to him. It didn’t hurt, not really. There were pulses of phantom pain, as the head of Ramsay’s cock traced the raised line of Theon’s scar, but there was...something else, too. Not pleasure––pleasure had no place here, in this bed, in this body––but a tingle, an itch. Theon hated it, and wanted more. 

He bit his lip, and the taste of blood mingled with the taste of wine on his tongue. The pain helped, but it wasn’t enough. He could still feel the ache below his belly, his heart beating through his scar. Every time Ramsay rubbed his cock along it, Theon’s hips gave a little jump. _Please,_ he almost said, the word falling silently from his lips. 

_Please what?_ he asked himself. _Please stop? Please keep going? Please make me...let me...what?_

It had become apparent to Theon that he was not much favored by any god, but he took his blessings where he found them. One was the fact that Ramsay, though he fucked hard and fucked often, could rarely fuck for long. “Shit,” he hissed, thrusting desperately between Theon’s thighs. He came all at once, in a burst of liquid warmth, and Theon moaned aloud.

From where he lay, he couldn’t see the courtyard, but he could see the towers of Winterfell and the grey sky beyond them. Snow was still coming down, the wind tossing its flakes like a maiden’s hair. Ramsay slid his cock out from between Theon’s legs and rolled over onto his back. Within moments, he was asleep, his soft cock lolling wetly out of his breeches.

Theon thought only briefly about reaching into his bedrobe, pressing his thumb into the blood-swollen tissue where Ramsay's seed was drying. He thought about it, and then he pulled the bearskin tightly around him, and stared through the window at the falling snow.


End file.
